Grief of the Poppy
by Kefalion
Summary: "She hid her feelings away, as securely as if they'd been kept under lock and key. No one knew what had happened." Madam Pomfrey is known to be strict, although she's also kind. There's a reason for why she is so strikt a reason she has never told anyone about, too ashamed and too afraid to do so.


This story was written for the **Fifth Round** of the Fourth Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm writing as **Beater 1** for **The Wimbourne Wasps**.

Name of round: **Mystery Boxes**

Well, this challenge was a bit different. As a team we had to pick a box, which was slightly unclear in the panic that was the opening of the round. Our seeker managed to grab the box marked **Hogwarts** before any other team could, and then each player had to pick a prompt from the box we got. We beaters had to decide between two prompts. I ended up with the **character prompt** , which in the Hogwarts box was **Poppy Pomfrey.** These are the rules I have to follow: Your story must revolve around this character. You may have supporting characters but they cannot be romantically involved. We're looking for a character study.

And these are the prompts I'm using to block our opponents, the Wigtown Wanderers:

1.(quote) 'Let's face it; this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing.' - Tony Stark, Iron Man  
9.(word) Dangerous  
13.(phrase) 'Under lock and key.'

I've also used a prompt from a different forum; Hogwarts Houses Challenges. Word: absolve (pitch) and sentence: It felt like free-falling. (drabble).

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created; it's all hers, from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts to all the people living there.

 **Warnings:** Character death, abysmal parenting – both leading to trauma.

Five rounds in and we're only getting better! Dear, dear Wasps, what would I do without you? Thank you for your help. I appreciate it so very much. Buzz, buzz!

And another thank you goes to Paperclippe my 'external' beta, who does such a great job!

 **PS.** Word-count provided by MS Word

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 **Grief of the Poppy  
** _Words: 2 998_

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It was a beautiful day in August. The sun was shining brightly from a blue sky, bathing the ground beneath it in yellow light. The grass was intensely green and the flowers were coloured in vibrant hues. Poppy couldn't decide if she liked the sunshine or if she thought that rain would have been more appropriate. In stories, it always rained at funerals. In stories everyone held black umbrellas as the sky wept along with them in mourning. Reality, however, was not like that.

Her little brother, Tristan, would have liked the nice weather. He had always loved being outdoors, and when it was stormy outside, he would be the family's own little sun, brightening their day with his cheerful disposition and large smile. Now, he would never smile again. He was gone. There was not even a body within the casket. The burial was a farce.

It had happened very fast. When Poppy had come home from her second year at Hogwarts, Tristan had been fine. By mid-July, though, it had been clear that he would not live for much longer. He had an illness the Healers at St Mungo's had never seen before. It was akin to vanishing sickness, yet different. Tristan hadn't lost body parts or vanished all at once. Instead, he'd just... faded. His energy had disappeared until he couldn't muster the will to get out of bed, and he'd steadily gotten more washed-out. His dark hair had grown paler at the roots, his blue eyes had faded until they blended with the whites, and his skin had turned translucent. But that had only been the start. Within weeks, he had been less corporeal than a ghost. Eventually, there had been nothing left of him in the bed. There had only been cold, rumpled sheets.

He had been allowed to stay at home, in the Pomfreys' country house in Dorset; the Healers had determined that the illness wasn't contagious. They had spoken with pity in their eyes, and Poppy had understood as she hid behind her father's back, that they allowed Tristan to go home since they thought he should spend his last days with his family.

Their mother had not received the same message. She had ordered Poppy to stay away from Tristan, saying that she must allow him to rest if he were to get better. Poppy hadn't listened. As often as she could, she had sat by her brother's bedside, keeping him company. Poppy had snuck him treats that he'd only nibbled on, yet said he appreciated. They both ignored how he'd always seem weakened after trying to eat them.

Poppy had read to him until her voice was a croak, sung to him even though her voice was not suited for it and told him everything about Hogwarts, keeping up the pretence of him attending the school in a few years time. It was a nice dream, even though they had both known that it would never come true.

They had been discovered, however, and Poppy had received a tongue-lashing from their mother. Now, as the guests were leaving the funeral, Poppy knew that she was in for another one.

Her mother, dressed for mourning in black robes and her hair pulled back tightly had enough storm in her eyes to blot out the sun. She looked dangerous and she was. "Are you proud?" she said.

Poppy opened her mouth to answer, although she didn't know what to say.

It didn't matter as her mother snorted and went on. "Do you understand what you have done, you stupid girl? It is your fault that Tristan is dead! If you had only done as I told you and left him alone to rest, he would have stayed alive! You gave him sweets when he should have used what energy he had to take his nutrient potions! You caused this! It's your fault that he is dead!"

Slap.

Poppy numbly raised her hand to touch her smarting cheek, looking at her mother's enraged face with wide eyes. Her mother had slapped her. Never before had she done that. Never before had she raised a hand; any punishment that had been corporal had been done with magic. Poppy felt the guilt rise like a flood within her; it spread from her chest and out into her limbs, making them impossibly heavy and cold. She had thought that her tears had run dry, but now, they returned. "I'm sorry," she said, part of the apology getting lost in a sob.

"What does that help?" said her mother. "It's too late now. Don't pretend like you didn't continue with your stupidity after I told you to stop." The words kept coming, each like the strike of a hammer. "You did this. You didn't give him a chance to get better, you stole his energy without thinking about what would have been the best for him, you only made yourself feel better. I do hope that you feel better now. Tristan would hate you and I..."

Poppy's vision was blurry as she waited in suspense for her mother to say the words. A mother was supposed to love her children. Her mother didn't anymore. The question was only if she would say it out loud.

She didn't. She left after giving Poppy a look of absolute loathing.

Poppy stood there, letting it sink in that she had put her brother in an early grave and that her mother hated her for it. It soaked into her bones, reshaping her inside and out.

-o-o-o-

For as long as Poppy lived at home during school breaks, her mother never allowed her to forget what she had done, that she was responsible for shortening Tristan's life, for him dying. Poppy tried to not let it get to her; she tried to remember the looks the Healers at St. Mungo's had shared with each other, looks that said that Tristan would not survive, regardless of what they did. She tried to remember that she had been there for him, that she had never abandoned him. She tried to tell herself that it was better to live a month less but have the last month be happy than to be completely alone and forgotten for double that time. She did not succeed. She could not shake the guilt.

She hid her feelings away, as securely as if they'd been kept under lock and key. No one knew what had happened or that her mother blamed her for it—not even her father. She had worshipped the man when she was younger, wanting to be like him. He always seemed so wise, but Tristan's death had changed him, made him distant. He had been too stricken with his own grief to notice the animosity between mother and daughter.

Though Poppy had tried to forget everything about her brother's last summer, it lived inside her and grew like an infection in a poorly cleaned wound. The guilt was in everything she did. The guilt was there when she chose to study Healing—her mother derisively declaring that the people at the hospital were insane and that Poppy was a danger to anyone who would be in her care. Poppy's guilt was there when she would advise visitors at the ward to leave long before what would have been normal procedure. It was there when she would only let her patients eat healthy food, when she banned all sweets.

When her father passed on and Poppy was forced to see her mother again after a long time spent avoiding her, Poppy realised what a horrible woman her mother was. While she could not justifiably blame Poppy for her father's death, her mother had tried. She was bitter and hateful, and Poppy swore then and there that she would not be like her mother. The change was slow to come, but by the time she was working as the Matron of Hogwarts' Hospital Wing, she was making some progress.

-o-o-o-

Remus Lupin was once more resting in one of the beds in her Wing. It was the day after the full moon, and he was particularly bad off. When Poppy had came to fetch him from the miserable little house off the school grounds, she had found him asleep and naked in a pile of rubble that had once been an armoire. Usually by the time she arrived, he'd have cleaned himself up somewhat and pulled on some of the clothes that were kept where he could not get to them in wolf form. Poppy had not said anything, but her silence had prompted the young man to point out that this was hardly the worst condition she had found him in. Privately she disagreed; and she saw to his new wounds without comment.

That night, after she had retreated to her office to let Remus rest, she heard voices. It was not visiting hour and she had half a mind to send whoever was out there back to their Head of House with a note that demanded they be given detention, both for being out after curfew and for robbing Remus of his well-needed rest. However, when Poppy looked out of her door and saw James Potter perched on an empty bed and a bright smile on Remus' face, she held back from storming in there to berate them. Just this once, she would let it be. She was not her mother, and she would not deprive her patient of his friend. Then she saw Remus yawn widely and her resolve crumbled.

James was sent directly to Professor McGonagall with a note in his pocket explaining what he had done and a suggested punishment. Satisfied, she watched Remus settle back to sleep; yet when she herself went to bed, she doubted herself and wondered if she had done the right thing.

-o-o-o-

Twenty years later, another Potter was in the Hospital Wing visiting a friend. Harry had sat with Ron Weasley who'd been through both an expired love potion and a poisoning. Harry had been by his friend's side since the moment Ron landed in the Hospital Wing and now it was well after the end of visiting hours and closing in on curfew. Poppy had not said anything and the situation would soon resolve itself. She could see that Ron was getting ready to sleep and Harry was about to leave. There had been no harm in letting Harry stay a bit longer than the rules allowed. Being there for one's friends was important.

She had, however, stepped in when the boys had asked a house-elf to deliver muffins. There would be no sweets eaten on her watch; not when Ron was still suffering the after-effects of the expired potion and poison.

As had become the norm she doubted herself when she left them. If Ron wasn't feeling nauseous it would have been alright for him to eat something, even something overly sugary. Poppy promised herself that she would make it up to him at breakfast by serving something less healthy than she normally would. She had to remember that sweets weren't always bad. Her mother had been wrong.

-o-o-o-

Much later, after the horrible year when they had all lived in terror as followers of You-Know-Who ran the school, Poppy was out in the Forbidden Forest, gathering ingredients for a potion she needed that very evening. Horace had informed her that she had to obtain a few ingredients herself as he did not have the time to spare if he was to brew the potion, though he had jovially directed her to a spot in the Forest where the moss she needed was likely to grow.

The promised moss was there, growing not far from an area with decaying Acromantula webs. It could very well be a dangerous area, so Poppy kept her wand close at hand, should the spiders still frequent their old nest.

She picked pieces of the fragrant plant methodically, quickly filling the basket she had over her arm. As she was finishing up, Poppy came upon a small object that had been grown over, hidden by the moss. It was a polished, black stone. It had some etching on the surface, but a crack marred the design. She lit her wand to see properly in the dim light and turned the stone over to see it better. She flipped it once. Twice. Thrice.

It felt like free-falling. She could not believe her eyes when she looked up, prompted by a sound. Before her, looking more alive than they had for years and years were her brother and her father. She raised her wand, ready to act, but the stone in her hand was warm, and seeing Tristan again reminded her of one of the stories she had read to him: _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ , where the second brother was gifted with a stone that could bring back the dead. It was only supposed to be a story. It shouldn't be true. It was more likely to be a creature like a Boggart. But never had she heard of a dark creature that would take the form of people you loved who had passed on. Perhaps it was a creature feeding off of guilt rather than fear. It was ridiculous to think that the children's tale could be true. Yet, she would have said the same about the Chamber of Secrets.

Dumbledore had been up to so much before his death and Mr Potter had walked into the forest to face You-Know-Who, only a little bit away from where she was standing. Who was to say that the Stone of Resurrection hadn't ended up here, somehow, for her to find? She wanted it to be true. She wanted it to be them.

"Tristan?" she ventured. "Dad?"

"Hello, flower," said her father.

Tristan came up to her, hugging her around the waist. She could feel him. It was not like the touch of someone physical, but warm where normal ghosts were cold. Both her father and brother had colour, and while they were translucent, it was almost unnoticeable. Warmth was spreading in her chest, yet there was a lump forming in her throat.

"Don't cry," her brother told her. The tone felt so wrong coming from him that it forced a laugh out of her. Here was her little brother, just as he had been before the illness took him away, trying to cheer her up.

Soon, she sobered from her merriment. "I'm so, so sorry, Tristan," she said. "I never wanted you to die. I never meant for it to happen. Please, forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive, silly," he said, glaring at her; no, not at her. "Mum's been so mean to you, making you think it was your fault. It was never your fault. You're not dangerous. It was only because I wanted to see you again, wanted you to tell me more about Hogwarts and hear your awful singing that I fought the sickness. I would have given up much sooner if it weren't for you, Poppy."

He hugged her again. It felt like slipping into a warm bath. She hugged him back as best she could, wrapping her arms around his warmth.

"I am sorry," said her father. "I've done you wrong. I never saw what your mother did to you. If I had... Poppy, you have to understand that she was not right. Had she been, she would still have had no right to do what she did. None of what happened was your fault. Not Tristan's death and not mine. It is time for you to let go of your guilt."

"Yeah," said Tristan. "You're old now, like, really old; you shouldn't let Mum decide how you live your life. I've seen you let the sick children have candy like you let me. That's good; that means you're not like Mum. Do more like that." He smiled, and Poppy could only laugh and say:

"I promise to not withhold candy from my patients—within reason."

Tristan made a sound of disgust. "When did you get so... adult?"

"I don't know if I can change," she said. "I've carried this for so long. I don't know how to be different."

"Talk to someone about it," said her father. "It will not be easy, but it will help. We cannot stay long. This is not the place for us, but I am glad we got to speak. Step out of your mother's shadow, flower. Don't let her hold you back from blooming anymore. Take care to not wilt and die for many years to come. We will wait."

"But don't take too long," said Tristan with a wink, and she laughed, unable to help herself.

"Drop the stone, and let it be," said her father. "Someday, someone else who needs it will find it. Until then, it'll be safe here. When you let go, we'll disappear, but we will always be with you, watching over you. We forgive you everything you feel you have done wrong. Now, go live; don't dwell in the past. Be strong and be happy."

"Thank you," she said, feeling lighter than in a very long time, absolved at last. She let go of the stone and did not look to see where it fell. She took her basket of moss and returned to the castle; she had potion ingredients to deliver and patients to spoil.

-o-o-o-

A third generation of Potters were in her Hospital Wing. Poppy silently vowed to retire before it could become a forth, but even as she thought this with a grumble, she smiled as young James Potter emptied an armful of confectioneries onto the bed next to the one where Teddy Lupin was resting. Something had gone wrong in Transfiguration Class because of his metamorphous talents. However, it was nothing some rest, some sweets and the company of a friend, could not cure.

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 **The End**

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 **A/N 13th** **June 2016**

I'm just at the word limit – again! Why can't I write short stories? Hopefully it'll not get a deduction for that though. Over all I'm quite happy with how this turned out. On a scale of 1 to 10, how awful is Mrs. Pomfrey and how cute is Tristan?Poor Poppy. Also, cookies to whoever can figure out what I based the title on – hint it's from a very popular TV-show with a fantasy theme.

I hope you enjoyed the story, please let me know what you thought, I love hearing all your comments!


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